


Tear Down the Stars

by Syphrosine



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Alternate Universe, Characters redacted for plot, DepaLives!AU, Gen, More AU than it appears on the surface, Order 66
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 13:56:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6910087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syphrosine/pseuds/Syphrosine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Palpatine's hand is forced early, and everything changes. (DepaLives!AU)</p>
<p>
  <em>The lobby was dead silent, a collective hush as Kallerans and droids alike stared, waiting. She wondered how it appeared at a distance—like surrender, perhaps. A disbelieving laugh rose in her throat but Depa swallowed it, feeling light-headed. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "We are here to seek asylum with the Confederacy of Independent Systems."</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tear Down the Stars

**Author's Note:**

> On its surface, this is a DepaLives!AU, but there is a lot of upheaval in this universe. Some of it is hinted at in this chapter--including the likely branching point. Some characters live who didn't; some die who did. We'll be seeing the consequences of that later.

"They’re running, General. They might not know it yet, but they’re running."

Depa Billaba brushed her flapping braids out of her face, nodding agreement at her second-in-command, Commander Grey, as he tucked his binoculars away. Out of habit, she scanned the sea of red-on-white armored clones for her padawan’s small mop of dark hair and spotted him deep in conversation with Big-Mouth and Soot, gesturing emphatically with a slice of fruit in his hand.

She smiled and turned her attention back to the enemy, the last of the lumbering Separatist transports disappearing over the hills in advance of their approach. The lights of Tallarusk glittered and although there was a distinct lack of civilian air traffic, the city appeared largely untouched by the Separatist occupation. Hopefully it remained that way; Grievous liked to punctuate tactical retreats with bombardments on the way out, but General Kleeve had taken care to avoid civilian casualties so far.

That Kleeve was willing to concede Tallarusk without a battle meant he was likely planning to consolidate his forces in Plateau City and make a final stand there. It wasn't precisely a guaranteed victory for the Republic—there were too many unknowns in war—but it was a strong indication that he wasn’t expecting reinforcements.

"Oh, I think Kleeve knows," she said.

"Knows and is covering his ass," came Captain Styles’ voice from behind them. "Unlike Tallarusk, Plateau’s got a spaceport. However much good that’ll do him when he has to report back to Dooku."

"He knows that too," Grey said wryly. "He’ll throw everything he’s got at us." He glanced at Depa. "Orders, General?"

She interlaced her hands, bringing her fingertips to her lips as she thought. They’d marched on double-time to reach Tallarusk, hoping to engage before reinforcements could arrive, but Kleeve's withdrawal rendered that moot. "Let them finish their retreat. We’ll camp here tonight, and move into the city in the morning. I hope it doesn’t come to a siege at Plateau City, but we need to prepare for the possibility."

Styles's grimace made it plain how he felt about the prospect of a siege. "Oh well. The men could use a break. I’ll let them know."

He left with a parting salute, and Depa stared at Tallarusk in the distance as something prickled at the back of her mind, a vague unease in the Force. She rubbed at her cheek, tiredly trying to pin down the feeling. 

She noticed her other hand creeping to the holocron tucked away in the pouch at her hip and she smiled faintly, gaze seeking Caleb out again. The Force had drawn her to the Archives during their last stopover at the Temple and she’d come across the holocron then. It was old: full of historical accounts, ancient star charts, Jedi teachings from centuries ago—perfect for her young padawan, whose curiosity was exceeded only by his desire to prove himself. She’d supplemented its contents with newer material in their brief downtime there: training holos, meditation exercises, debates from public Council decisions of the past half-century. Plenty of material to stretch her padawan, physically and mentally.

Depa's smile faded as she tried to recall their last lesson that wasn’t an abbreviated meditation or brief kata before sleep. Time she ordinarily would’ve had to train him on traditional missions was constantly eaten away by her war duties instead, leaving them only stolen moments in the lulls between action. Other than a brief trip to Ilum so that Caleb could build his lightsaber, they'd been either on deployment, recovering from deployments, or traveling between deployments. His lightsaber skills were exceptional for his age and only growing, but a Jedi was more than an instrument of war, and that was a hard lesson to impart when they'd spent the majority of his apprenticeship being just that.

The holocron was an imperfect solution, but she didn’t want the battlefield be Caleb’s only form of instruction. He was part of an entire generation of padawans that knew only war, who were treated as shock troops to be deployed at the Senate’s behest, and as curious as he was, Caleb had yet to learn to be critical.

Perhaps sensing her attention, Caleb glanced up from his conversation and met her gaze. His eyebrows rose slightly in silent question and she hesitated for a moment, the Force stirring with an insistent whisper. Finally, she nodded at him. His face brightened and he hopped down from the hovercrate he'd been perched on, making a beeline for her. 

"Caf, General?" Grey had reappeared from the command tent, two steaming cups in hand. "Don't worry, it’s not that swill Soot brews."

"The sergeant's caf is merely..." she searched for a diplomatic adjective, and Grey chuckled when she finally gave up. "Strong."

"It's sludge. It's what you scrape off the foot of an AT-TE after a six-month campaign." He pulled a face, setting the other cup down on the stack of supply crates they'd used as a makeshift table earlier. "In a pinch, it could probably be weaponized for chemical warfare."

"I'm sure the situation's not quite that desperate yet, Commander," she demurred.

Caleb joined them, buzzing with energy despite the long day, and shot the extra cup of caf a considering look. The commander shook his head, chuckling. "Caf’ll stunt your growth, kid. And you need all the help you can get."

Depa covered a smile as Caleb crossed his arms, all twelve-years-old of him puffed up with indignation. "That's a myth. Besides, I'm not short, I just haven't hit my growth spurt yet."

"Come, padawan." She put a hand on his shoulder and pointed him at the clearing in the trees just a few hundred meters from camp. "I'm afraid I have a padawan to instruct, Commander Grey," she said, inclining her head in apology. "I’ll take you up on the caf later. Let's regroup at—" she glanced at her chrono, "—1930 to discuss our next move."

"Yes, sir." He offered a casual salute, and Depa heard the distant buzz of his comlink behind them as they started toward the clearing.

"Lightsaber drills?" Caleb asked hopefully, almost trotting to keep up with her brisk pace. "I’ve been working on my—"

He paused, drawing up short the same instant she did as the Force screamed in warning. Depa looked around wildly for the threat but saw nothing, just her troops, and Commander Grey jogging after them with his blaster drawn. She heard distant shouts from the rest of the men, sounds of the camp stirring to battle.

She rested a hand on her lightsaber, turning to the commander. "Repor—"

In the fraction of a second it took Grey to raise his blaster and fire, she’d already ignited her lightsaber and slashed at the air, sending the blaster bolt flying harmlessly into the darkening sky. Her mind followed, half a second behind, and she lunged in front of Caleb, tuning out her immediate reaction—shock, betrayal—and drawing upon her battlefield calm.

"Commander—"

He fired his blaster again, repeatedly, and she deflected each, careful not to hit him. She heard the hum of Caleb’s lightsaber behind her, could sense his confusion and fear. Her gaze darted back to the camp, and she heard the shouts of officers marshalling the clones, sensed—

Time held for a moment, suspended, as the Force erupted and slammed into her like a shock wave.

_—warms his hands in the fire, feeling old. Today might have been a success, but he's lost too many good men on Mygeeto already. He raises a hand in tired greeting at Commander Bacara's approach, only to blink in confusion as the commander raises his blaster and—_

_—blaster fire flashes around her and pain, white and searing, blooms across her back. She drops to her knees, reaching feebly for her lightsaber, but she can't breathe. The world tips sideways, the press of moss and undergrowth cool against her cheek, and all she sees is turquoise and fuchsia and muddy, white boots. No, it can't be, Bly would never—_

_—stirs to groggy wakefulness at the crunch of footsteps, the blur of his men just barely visible through the oppressive fog. It's not even light yet, so something must be wrong. The fog flashes blue and bright as day for a split second, then there is only pain as the world goes dark—_

"Execute the Jedi traitors!"

Depa snapped back to herself, sucking in a breath, and—there wasn’t time for why or to even think about how many Jedi were dead, dying (all of them, please, not that). There was only the immediate danger, the clones, and only one objective: survive.

Caleb, who didn’t have the experience she did in shielding his mind, was still motionless beside her.

"Padawan!" she said, voice snapping like a whip. She didn’t dare take her eyes off Grey. "There’s no time. I need you to cover my flank."

Their recon speeders were on the edge of camp, within sprinting distance if they hurried, if they made it before Grey realized—

The commander followed her gaze and raised his comm to his mouth. Depa reacted instantly, the Force rippling to send Grey flying backward and then there was no time to waste. Blaster bolts ripped through the air from the camp below and she spun her ‘saber, an extension of the Force, calm within chaos.

The shouts changed, and she knew Styles had guessed her intentions. She glanced at the speeders ahead, weighing a dozen variables in a split instant.

"Drive!" she shouted to Caleb, concentrating on deflecting the incoming fire, all too aware it would only be a matter of time before the clones brought out heavier ordnance like the AT-TEs. She heard the speeder whir to life behind her.

"Master!"

She didn’t dare turn around; she leapt onto the back of the speeder and crouched, world narrowing to the spin of her lightsaber and the flares of blaster fire. "Go!"

Depa split her concentration between the blaster fire and the remaining speeders, off-hand curling with effort as she lifted one into the air and sent it smashing through the rest in a screech of metal that showered sparks along the forest underbrush. She hissed as pain erupted across her right arm and turned her full focus back to her men, but then they were off, distance growing between them and the encampment. She extinguished her blade as the last of the blaster fire fell away.

"Lights," she said breathlessly, settling beside him in the front of the speeder and adjusting their course to a point just beyond Tallarusk. "Dim everything you can."

His hands darted across the console until there was only the evening gloom around them, the lights of the city ahead of them, and the shrinking camp behind.

"Master," Caleb said, voice shaking. "What’s happening? Why were they—" He swallowed. "I can sense—"

"Focus, padawan," she said, more sharply than she’d intended. She stared at the city, mind racing. Jedi traitors. Across the galaxy, Jedi were being slaughtered by their clone troopers. Was it Dooku’s work, somehow? It was a carefully guarded secret that he'd been behind the creation of the clone army, but he couldn't possibly have infiltrated the Republic deeply enough to pull off something this coordinated, with timing this precise—

She thought back to the holocall Grey had been about to take, right before he had attacked them, and a chill ran through her. No, that had to have come from the highest channels. Depa hesitated at the controls. Tallarusk wasn’t under Republic control just yet, they could ditch the military-issue speeder for something less conspicuous and—

Go where? To Plateau City and seek refuge with the CIS? Or—

_She's sprinting through the halls of the Temple, the high-pitiched hum of blaster fire deflecting off lightsabers fading behind her. Every instinct screams at her to stay, to fight and defend, but this is even more important. Her destination rounds into view and she allows herself a tiny sigh of relief. The younglings behind her are quiet and still, their apprehension a dull roar in the back of her mind as she holds out a hand and concentrates on the mechanism on the other side of the wall. After what feels like an eternity, there is a welcome click and the doorway swings open._

_She herds the younglings in, sealing away the sounds of battle behind them, and then pauses, a strange heaviness to the silence. There's someone...she squints, able to sense another presence. She extends her lightsaber, trying to pierce the darkness with its soft blue glow, and exhales in relief at the familiar mask of a Temple Guard. He'll know the passageway better than her, it's a long way to—_

_She freezes at the heavy crunch of boots. The Temple Guard raises the hilt of his lightsaber, slowly and deliberately, and thumbs the ignition switch. The yellow blade hums to life, illuminating the passageway, and now she can see the clone troopers flanking him, endless rows of helmets stretching deep into the gloom._

_Her gaze snaps away from the clone troopers, back to that expressionless mask. "What—"_

_He tilts his head at her. "I'm afraid my master was quite clear, Master Croix." His lightsaber sweeps down, and the clone troopers advance. "There are to be no survivors."_

"Master?"

Depa latched onto her padawan's voice and wrenched herself free of the vision, sick with horror. She took a deep breath, chest tight, and tried to ground herself in the Force, but the Force itself was an open wound, radiating pain and loss.

_Not now,_ she pled silently. _Not until it’s safe. Not until my padawan’s safe._

Depa drew another rattling breath and regrouped. Coruscant was—she closed her eyes, fighting down nausea. Coruscant was out of the question, but neither could they stay in the middle of a warzone, hunted by both Republic and Confederate forces. Kleeve might be willing to grant them asylum but it would come with a price, either now or later, when Dooku became involved.

A harsh, chemical smell drifted to the forefront of her attention and Depa opened her eyes, heart sinking in recognition. A stray bolt must have made it through; they were leaking fuel. She exhaled slowly then glanced back over her shoulder. No visible pursuit yet, but it couldn’t be far behind. She'd destroyed most of the speeders, but not all.

That left them with only one option. Depa turned her gaze to Tallarusk, then leaned forward and adjusted the steering controls.

* * *

The chaos of Kleeve’s hasty exit made it easy to slip inside the city relatively unnoticed, but their robes drew lingering stares that prickled the hair on the back of her neck. They ducked into an empty alleyway at the first opportunity, and Depa leaned against the weathered duracrete for a moment, pressing fingers to either temple as she pushed back against the intrusive tug of the Force on her concentration.

Clothing. They couldn’t risk being recognized as Jedi, especially if they wanted to find passage in Plateau City. She didn’t want to test Dooku’s hospitality, and Grievous would execute her on sight, given the chance.

She untied her braids and let her hair fall loose to the middle of her back, then shrugged off her cloak and started undoing her arm wrappings, nodding at Caleb to follow suit. After eying the fabric of her cloak, she ripped a few bands of cloth off and covered her head in a makeshift shawl before doing the same for Caleb, hiding his padawan braid. Then she undid her sash and slipped her tabards off, stripping down to just her tunic and pants.

Caleb's gaze went to her arm and his eyes widened. "You're hurt."

Depa glanced down, startled to realize that she'd forgotten about it entirely. The burn throbbed now under the sudden attention, but it was nothing a bacta patch couldn't handle. "It's fine."

He stared at it then shivered, eyes going distant. "I thought I saw—" 

"I'm fine, padawan," she repeated, gathering their discarded clothing into a pile and stuffing it down a sewage drain. Then she turned back to Caleb and nodded in grim satisfaction as she looked him over. It wouldn't fool a clone, but a Kalleran wouldn't give them a second glance. "Let's go."

They tucked their lightsabers out of sight and Depa scanned the street. Still quiet. She glanced at Caleb again. Also quiet, mouth tight, more pale than she’d like.

No time. The longer they waited to find transportation to Plateau City, the more time Grey would have to set up patrol squads to intercept them. The one factor in their favor was that the encampment was to the south of Tallarusk, while Plateau City was to the north, so her men would first need to clear the hilly ridge Tallarusk was sprawled across.

Depa scanned the city skyline until her gaze fell on the broad, white-domed building that housed the local government. There. A politician could always be trusted to have an exit strategy.

"Keep your head down and stay close," she murmured to her padawan.

She set a brisk pace, but it was still a good five kilometers on foot and the minutes dragged on, each one scraping across her nerves, a constant refrain of no time, no time. She and Caleb could easily have crossed the distance in a fraction of the time, but she didn't dare risk attracting attention, not yet.

The chaos at the capitol was even more pronounced than on the streets, but some Force-backed finesse was still necessary to get them through security and then into the hangar. Depa's breath caught on a sigh once they were inside; it was practically gutted, most of the craft likely commandeered by Kleeve in his retreat. Only three shuttles remained, none of them hyperspace-capable.

Depa started toward the closest then registered the sound of voices behind them growing louder and broke into a sprint. She ducked behind the loading ramp, Caleb fast behind her, just as a pair of Kallerans entered the hangar, one dressed in the formal robes worn by high-ranking government officials, the other in pilot gear.

"—that blasted Devaronian!" Depa risked a peek and her jolt of recognition—the speaker was Dural Fisk, governor of Tallarusk—gave her the rough outline of a plan. "Republic forces are already massing to take the city. We'll be lucky if they don't shoot us down on sight."

"Relax, if they were going to shoot anyone down, it would've been the Seppies," the pilot pointed out. "They're on the wrong side for it, anyway. We'll have a clear path to Plateau City."

Depa exhaled. Voluntarily entering a Separatist stronghold was breathtakingly risky, but she didn't see what other choice they had. At least Kleeve wouldn't be actively hunting them. She exchanged a look with Caleb and then extended a hand and focused, tugging just slightly on the heel of the pilot’s boot. He stumbled, crashing into the governor and setting off a fresh stream of invective that bought them the window they needed to slip onto the shuttle unnoticed.

There was a small storage hold in the back, and she gave it a quick appraisal. It would be a tight fit, but it'd have to do. She beckoned Caleb in, eyes fixed on the hallway, and then slid in behind him. She winced as she jarred her arm, but managed to close the compartment lid just in time.

"Hurry it up!" the governor hissed.

"We’ll be on our way as soon as I finish my checks," the pilot replied, an edge of irritation in his voice. Various beeps sounded from the cockpit, and eventually the engine hummed to life.

Then there was nothing to do but wait. Despite the pilot's reassurances, she spent the first five minutes bracing for the inevitable hail from one of Grey’s patrols, but none came. Another five minutes passed, and she finally let herself breathe, hands shaky with adrenaline as she gathered her composure.

Depa glanced at her padawan, who was staring straight ahead, knees gathered in to his chest, almost non-responsive. Worried, she reached for him in the Force and found his shields drawn in tight, flinching defensively at her light touch. The Force itself was—

Depa opened herself up for just a moment and then pulled back with a gasp, heart pounding.

"Death, yet the Force," she whispered, the words knotting in her throat. She ran fingers through Caleb's hair, tuning herself to the glow of his presence in the Force until the pain and discord echoing through it faded to a mere throb in the background.

Focus. She needed to focus. Plateau City was half an hour by shuttle. Kleeve would still be in the process of setting up, and a civilian shuttle carrying a CIS-allied Kalleran official was unlikely to be searched. The challenge would be securing passage on a ship without credits and without revealing themselves to be Jedi. Or stealing one, if no better option presented itself, but that would make it easier for anyone who might be hunting them.

Depa found herself tensing again during the comm chatter when they reached Plateau City, but they landed without incident. She and Caleb waited for the two Kallerans to depart, then slipped off the shuttle, and that was where their good fortune ended. She cast a gaze around, stomach sinking. The hangar where they’d landed was small, but it was crawling with droids.

"Master?" Caleb's hand crawled to his lightsaber, and she shook her head at him, thinking furiously.

Stealing the ship they'd stowed away on wasn't a viable solution. There was a good chance they'd be shot down before they even reached the edge of the city, and it wouldn't get them off the planet. No, finding transport in Plateau City was still their best hope.

"Follow my lead," she murmured. "It's very important that you do not draw your lightsaber unless I tell you to."

She ducked her head, letting the makeshift shawl obscure as much of her face as possible, and then placed a guiding hand on Caleb's shoulder and started toward the hangar entrance. The half dozen B1 battle droids that had formed a checkpoint there stopped them, brandishing their blaster rifles.

"Identification papers," said the nearest one.

Caleb tensed under her grip and she squeezed, trying to convey reassurance. "I apologize. In all of the chaos, I completely forgot. I'm Governor Fisk's aide, and this is my son—"

"Identification papers," the droid repeated with a hint of impatience.

"I don't have them," she said. "You're welcome to call Governor Fisk back here, but he has an urgent meeting with General Kleeve."

However much the CIS might like to believe its droid army was mindlessly obedient, even the simple-minded B1s developed personalities over time, and with personality came a sense of self-preservation. Her comment set off an argument between the droids over who would be the one to disturb the general, which lasted several minutes before ending in a stalemate. They turned to her and Caleb, and Depa stared back patiently as the silence dragged out.

"Uh, move along," one finally said.

She nodded and they continued through into the central government complex, which had been converted into a makeshift command center in the wake of Kleeve’s arrival. It buzzed with activity, the droids outnumbering the Kallerans in its halls three to one. She was hyperaware that she and Caleb were among the only humans in the crowd, which earned them a few curious looks.

The building itself was old, with no obvious turbolifts as they wound their way through it. Eventually, she settled on tailing a Kalleran who seemed to know where he was going, which led them to a grand, sloping staircase and what looked like the main lobby at its base. Her pace quickened at the sight of—not safety, not yet, but close. Once they made it out, it was only a matter of finding a willing ship's captain.

"—that you've put me in a difficult position, General!"

Depa recognized the voice before the words registered, and by then it was too late. A red-skinned Devaronian rounded the stairs into view, Governor Fisk trotting behind him. Caleb froze beside her for a mere fraction of a second, and that was all it took. General Kleeve’s gaze swiveled to them like a turret, sweeping from Caleb to her, and his visible eye narrowed in recognition.

"General Billaba," he said, and every blaster in a twenty-meter radius rounded on them.

She caught Caleb’s hand before it could go to his lightsaber, holding perfectly still. Her heart pounded in her chest with the knowledge that their options for escape had just narrowed to zero, but she inclined her head at Kleeve, outwardly calm. His eye dropped to the lightsaber at her belt with the wariness of someone who knew he was well within range of a Jedi.

"I’m afraid your intel is out of date, General Kleeve," she said. "I am no longer a general for the Republic."

Kleeve rested a hand on his blaster, not taking his eyes off her. "Are you here as an assassin for the Republic?"

"General, I think we both know there’s little value in assassinating you now."

Kleeve’s mouth twitched in a humorless smile. Though he'd successfully consolidated his forces in Plateau City, the general was clearly under no illusion it was anything but a protracted retreat. "Then why are you here, Billaba?"

There was only one terrible course of action left. Very slowly, Depa unhooked her lightsaber hilt, holding it out in offering. This weapon is your life. She winced. It was a lesson drilled into every Jedi, from the moment they were old enough to hold a lightsaber, and it had been especially true for the past three years.

Kleeve stared at it like she’d offered him a live detonator for several tense seconds before stepping forward and taking it. Caleb cast her an anxious look, then bit his lip and surrendered his.

The lobby was dead silent, a collective hush as Kallerans and droids alike stared, waiting. She wondered how it appeared at a distance—like surrender, perhaps. A disbelieving laugh rose in her throat but Depa swallowed it, feeling light-headed. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "We are here to seek asylum with the Confederacy of Independent Systems."

* * *

"They called you a traitor?"

Depa took another sip of water to soothe her dry throat. This was the fourth time the captain, a stony-faced Koorivar, had asked the question during the two hour-long session, with only slight variations in phrasing. At least he'd finally stopped asking about the holocron.

"When can I see my padawan?" she asked instead, trying to keep the worry from her voice. They'd been separated at the start, and while there was no reason to believe the Separatists would harm him, she could sense his growing agitation and distress.

The furrows of the Koorivar's brow ridges deepened. "After we're finished here, General Billaba. Answer the question."

"Jedi traitors," she said, folding her hands atop the table. They flexed at the memory, still fresh. "All Jedi, not just me. They—" She glanced down at her hands, forcing them to unclench. "All Jedi."

"Which you claim to know because you sensed it," he said, voice flat with skepticism. "You expect me to believe you received no outside communication?"

She met his gaze coolly and held it. "I would say my men communicated the sentiment quite clearly."

He was the first to look away, eyes dropping to his datapad, where he tapped a few more notes. Then the door opened and Kleeve strode in, a cup of caf in one hand. "I'll take it from here, Captain Drallen." He set the caf down on the table and then stared at the captain until he stood, clearly surprised by the dismissal. "Have someone fetch me another cup."

He slid the one he'd brought across the table, liquid sloshing just over the rim of the cup and onto the table. Depa inclined her head at him and took a sip. "General."

"Jedi." He leaned back in his chair. "I would say I preferred your surprises on the battlefield, but we both know that's a lie."

A tired smile pulled at her lips. "Are you satisfied yet, General? Or shall we give it one more round?"

"Satisfied for now. Your story matches our intel on the ground and makes sense of some unusual transmissions we've intercepted." The door swished open and a droid deposited a steaming cup of caf at the general's elbow before he shooed it away. "There is a precedent for handling Jedi defectors, but asylum is—different."

She held up a hand to forestall the question she could read in his expression. "I have no intention of betraying the Republic."

He shrugged. "It seems that the reverse is not true. This process would be much smoother if you were willing to consider it."

"And if I am not?" she asked softly.

Kleeve's index finger tapped against the side of his cup, the full weight of his attention falling on her. "Ultimately, the decision rests with Count Dooku. Until he's ruled on the matter, you will remain on Kaller, under guard. I'll have someone arrange billeting." His eye narrowed slightly. "You’ll be confined to quarters, of course."

That was more than she'd hoped for, actually, even if being forced to rely on Dooku's goodwill left her cold. She had known Dooku before he left the Order—had inherited his vacant seat on the Council, in fact—but it was difficult to reconcile that man with the fallen Jedi who’d engineered the deaths of so many of his former brethren on Geonosis and millions of beings since.

"And my padawan?" she asked, realizing suddenly that he had said nothing about Caleb.

There was a worrying pause before Kleeve replied. "He's still being interviewed."

She stared at him, trying to read any hidden meaning behind the words. There’d been no time to explain anything to Caleb once they’d been taken into custody and precocious as he was, Caleb was young. He wouldn’t know which questions needed to be answered and which were aimed at extracting useful intel, and she was certain Kleeve’s agents were taking full advantage of that.

Depa was holding herself together through sheer force of will, keenly aware that she couldn't afford to grieve until they were safe. But Caleb's trembling quiet earlier had all the signs of shock, and the Force was radiating pain and death strong enough that she could only blunt the sharpest edges of it. Her padawan would be experiencing the full effect.

"I need to see him." Another ugly possibility occurred to her. "We—will be kept together?"

Kleeve’s shrug was noncommittal, and Depa’s hands tightened around her cup at the reminder of just how precarious their position was. "When can I see him?"

"Give me actionable intel, and you can see him right now," Kleeve offered. He watched her over the rim of his cup as he took a long sip, then set it down with a sigh. "It is in your best interests that we continue to hold Plateau City, Master Billaba. Unfortunately, you've waged an effective campaign," he said, grimacing. "As it stands, the Republic will overrun us. Chaos in Republic ranks buys us time, but that only means it will be a matter of weeks rather than days. If you could give me something..."

Depa shook her head, an older and more familiar ache in her chest as the ghosts of Maruun Kal stirred. She didn't know why her men had turned against her so swiftly and decisively, but enough of them had died for her. She would defend herself and her padawan if attacked, but she would not betray them to Kleeve.

"Very well." Kleeve rose to his feet. "Captain?" The Koorivar appeared at the door, radiating silent hostility. "See that the general receives medical attention, then requisition one of the officer's suites and set up a guard rotation."

Depa remained seated, stare fixed on Kleeve. "My padawan?"

Kleeve gazed back, silent, and she had the sense that he was giving her one final opportunity to cooperate. She folded her hands in her lap, letting none of her anxiety show in her expression. Kleeve wouldn't hurt him; that much, she believed.

Finally Kleeve turned away, breath escaping in a hiss of frustration. "You'll be updated on his status later."

Then she was alone again with Captain Drallen, who remained in the doorway as he tapped at his datapad, ignoring her for several minutes before eventually stashing it away.

"This way, Jedi," he said, omitting her military rank for the first time. She rose to follow, steps faltering as she caught sight of the droids lining the hallway, blaster rifles drawn. Two dozen at least—plenty for an unarmed Jedi in a confined space. Drallen flashed his teeth at her in what could charitably be called a smile. "I recommend you avoid sudden movements. This is a twitchy batch."

* * *

Caleb made another restless turn around the room where they’d stuck him after his interrogation. It didn’t look like a holding cell, exactly, but the locked door and guards outside made it clear that he was to stay put.

He stopped at the corner furthest from the door and finally sat down on the floor, deliberately ignoring the table and chair at the center of the room. He pulled his feet in against his chest and rested his chin on top of his knees, stomach knotted with worry. It had been over six hours since he’d seen his master, and no one had responded to his repeated pounding on the door.

He'd know if they'd hurt her, Caleb reminded himself. They hadn’t hurt him, just asked question after question, rapid-fire. How did you get here. Why are you here. Why are you fleeing the Republic. Were you followed. Were there casualties. And then, midway through, after a brief interruption by another officer: are you aware of a failed Jedi coup?

Caleb’s hands tightened around his elbows. The Council would never do something like that. Everything they’d done had been to save the Republic, and now—

He dug his chin harder into his knees at the memory of Grey firing on them, at _Big-Mouth_ firing at them, just minutes after slicing a meiloorun into neat quarters and passing one to him. Why? Why would they do something like that, after everything they'd been through together? They knew Master Billaba, they had to know she'd never do anything to hurt the Republic. No Jedi would.

_—lungs heaving as she pulls up short, pebbles kicking down the steep face of the cliff. She can hear the hum of the pursuing speeders and turns in time to see them burst through the tree line. She thumbs her lightsaber on, but they haven't raised their blasters yet, and she realizes with a jolt that they don't need to, they're going to run her—_

The four walls of the room snapped back into view, the quiet broken only by Caleb's frantic gasps for air. The Force ached like a hollow in his chest, vast and empty and ringing like an echo chamber. 

_Stop,_ he begged, not even sure what he was pleading for. He tried making himself as small as possible, drawing his shields in tightly, but there was no hiding from the Force. It pulled at him, implacable, demanding witness, demanding—

The door opened and he froze for half a second, heart pounding, before scrambling to his feet. It was a Kalleran, bearing a tray of food that he set down on the table, glancing at Caleb with an air of vague disinterest before exiting without comment. The door didn't close behind him, and Caleb had only a half-second to contemplate escape before the guard outside snapped a salute and General Kleeve's broad frame appeared in the doorway.

Caleb tensed but the Devaronian ignored him and approached the table instead. He grabbed a slice of fruit from the tray and popped it in his mouth, chewing silently for several seconds.

"Where's my master?" Caleb blurted.

Kleeve's eye focused on him with unnerving intensity. "Unharmed."

That didn't answer his question, but he relaxed fractionally. During his interrogation, they'd refused to say anything at all about Master Billaba or what would happen if they didn't like any of his responses to their questions.

"Eat," Kleeve said, picking up another slice of fruit. "It's not drugged."

Caleb stared at the tray blankly, then shook his head. He didn't think Kleeve was lying, but it didn't really matter; the thought of food made his stomach turn.

"I'll leave it here, should you change your mind." Kleeve took a seat at the table and gestured at the chair across from him. "Sit."

He obeyed after a brief hesitation, but then the Force buckled and heaved, his vision twisting again.

_—damp soil in his nose as he waits for them to pass, booted footsteps crunching against forest undergrowth. They halt and his breath freezes. Don't let them find me, please, I'm not here, I'm not here—_

Caleb flinched, pulse pounding with foreign panic as he blinked the room back into focus. The Force quivered and then settled with a voiceless sigh. His hand was still on the chair, and Kleeve was watching him intently. He sat and clenched his hands into fists beneath the table to stop the shaking.

"I have follow-up questions regarding the Republic troops on Kaller," Kleeve said after a moment.

His tension ratcheted up even further. The Kage officer who'd interviewed him had asked a lot about the 93rd. Unit strength, supply lines, availability of orbital support—he'd feigned ignorance for most of them and thankfully, she hadn't pressed.

"I realize that this is difficult," Kleeve said, leaning forward, "but there is a very real danger the Republic could take Plateau City. If that happens before I've heard back from my superiors, you and your master will be at their mercy again."

Maybe by then, they'd have realized it was all a mistake, and—Caleb's fists tightened in his lap. No. Jedi were still dying, all across the galaxy. And they'd fled to the CIS. If Grey and Styles, who had always been fiercely loyal to and protective of Master Billaba, were willing to believe whatever lie the Republic had made up about the Jedi being traitors, that wasn't exactly going to convince them otherwise.

"I want to help you and your master, but I need your help in return."

Caleb stared at the surface of the table, feeling trapped. "I don't know much about troop movements and logistics. My master handled all of that." A vague suspicion formed and he frowned, meeting Kleeve's gaze. "Why don't you ask her?"

Kleeve waved the question aside. "I'm asking you."

Caleb's frown deepened. "Because she wouldn't tell you?"

"You are being interviewed separately for a reason. You and your master are asking me to trust you, but I also need to be able to trust the intel I'm given."

Caleb's eyes dropped back to the table. No one had been hurt during their escape today, and he knew she would have killed to protect him if necessary, but—what Kleeve was asking for was different. Stance's smile rose from his memory, not so old a hurt that it didn't sting.

"They're my friends," he said quietly.

Kleeve's palm slapped the surface of the table hard enough to rattle the food tray, and Caleb reeled back in his seat, reaching instinctively for a lightsaber that wasn't there.  
"Your _friends_ tried to kill you. If you hadn't escaped they would've blasted you and your master to slag, like every other Jedi who died today at the hands of their so-called friends."

Caleb inhaled sharply, the scent of wet soil suddenly fresh in his nose again, that overpowering terror of discovery. He dragged a hand through his hair, catching a fistful and tugging until it faded.

"The Republic used you and discarded you. You owe them nothing."

Kleeve's comlink chirped, startling them both, and Kleeve raised it to his mouth with an impatient expression. "Report."

"Sir, priority dispatch. There's—news out of Coruscant."

Kleeve glanced at him and rose to his feet. The door slid open at the scan of his access card and closed shut behind him, leaving Caleb to imagine wilder and wilder scenarios. Had the Jedi at the Temple retaliated? Retreated? _Had_ there been a coup? Or—could the Separatists have launched their own attack to take advantage of the chaos?

Seconds stretched to minutes, and Caleb stood, pacing anxiously. Maybe Kleeve wasn't returning, maybe he—

The door opened again, but Kleeve remained outside, eyes locking on him. His face was stony, unreadable. "Come with me."

* * *

Depa poked dutifully at the slab of protein on her plate, which had been grilled and seasoned with a care meant for someone with a more refined palate than a Jedi-turned-general who'd spent the past few months subsisting on ration bars and MREs and really terrible caf. Kalleran kitchen staff, probably, pressed into service to feed their new CIS guests rather than the politicians and dignitaries that were usually entertained at the capitol.

It could have been rehydrated bantha-leather and she probably wouldn't have have noticed. She'd slipped into light meditation earlier, steeling herself for the worst, but the reality had exceeded even that.

A Jedi was never alone. Was never meant to be alone. From birth to death, the Force bound them together, rendered light-years meaningless. Coruscant, dense and powerful with the the thousands of Jedi concentrated in the Temple, had hummed like a heartbeat, like _home._

But when she'd stretched out her senses, it had been like staring into a vacuum: vast and cold and silent. The Temple was simply—gone, something dark and ugly left seething in its place, and the shock of it pulsed through the Force like an open wound. She'd clung to Caleb's bright presence, grounding herself in the knowledge that she wasn't completely alone, however loudly her senses screamed otherwise. She had Caleb, and there would be other survivors. Even if—

Depa breathed out and set her fork down, throat tightening. The final moments of too many of her friends had flashed through her mind earlier, too many to process in the heat of battle. She'd glimpsed Master Yoda's death. She hadn't sensed Mace, but he'd been on Coruscant as well.

A jolt of fear snapped her attention back to Caleb and she surged to her feet, trying to pinpoint the source of his distress. Not injury, but that didn't narrow it down much either. Her hands balled into helpless fists at her sides as she stared at the door. Lightsaber or no, she knew she could overpower the droids Drallen had left stationed there, but unless they actually hurt Caleb, she couldn't afford to risk it.

His fear leveled out, and she released her tension with another slow exhale. Kleeve separating them was a strategic play, a reminder of who held the power here.

_Will it be any better once you're handed over to Dooku?_ Depa's nostrils flared. Dooku was a fallen Jedi. He might not want to kill them, but that didn't mean he wouldn't destroy them all the same. She would die before she let him twist her padawan.

Depa stared at the door with renewed frustration. Escaping custody wasn't an option as long as the Separatists held her padawan elsewhere. For a commander with limited resources to hold Kaller against a Jedi-led offensive, Kleeve had stretched the conflict out weeks longer than she'd expected. He was a shrewd tactician. The moment she tried anything, he'd divert every resource to keep her from Caleb.

"Master Billaba," called a voice from the other side of the door.

She frowned in surprise, recognizing the voice immediately as General Kleeve's. He wasn't alone, either—Depa's eyes widened, a flutter of fragile hope in her chest. "Enter."

When the door opened, her gaze snapped to Caleb and her padawan's relief flooded over their bond. He stared back at her, face crumpling, then launched himself at her. She caught him, words dying in her throat as she held him and the Force narrowed to just them, the ache of loss subsiding for a few seconds.

_Not alone,_ the Force seemed to whisper. Not completely.

Finally she pulled back, placing her hands on either shoulder, and forced herself to think about what Caleb's presence meant. Either her padawan had given them what they wanted, or Kleeve intended to ask for something now. She tensed, glancing up to find him watching them, expression thoughtful. Depa shifted her focus to him and caught a faint whisper of—regret?

Her grip on Caleb tightened. "General. You didn't come here just to return my padawan."

"No," he said slowly. His hand tapped against the holster on his belt, but he stopped when he noticed her stare. "Count Dooku is dead."

"Dead," she repeated, blood turning cold as she followed the news to its obvious conclusion.

"General Grievous is now commander of the Droid Army."


End file.
